Page 53 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
“I don’t get it.” Miss Virginia shoots Buttercup a dubious look. “If she doesn’t ride anything, what does she do? What doyoudo?”
“I give her commands and she does tricks. You know, basic dog things like sit and speak.” I look down at Buttercup and she swivels her big eyes toward me. Even she’s starting to look doubtful about this whole thing.
“Oh,” Torrie says. A few of the other contestants exchange glances. “I’m sure it’s super cute.”
“It is,” I say defensively. “It’s more than cute. We’ve got a theme and everything. It’s actually kind of brilliant.”
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, myself or the crowd of bedazzled naysayers. All I know is that if I allow myself to think for even a second that I’m about to crash and burn, I’ll never get up on that stage.
It was different when the only thing at stake was Ginny winning the crown. I mean, I wanted her to win, of course. Following in our mom’s footsteps means the world to her. That’s the entire reason why I agreed to all of this to begin with.
But somewhere along the way, things have shifted. I want to do well. Does that sound crazy? Never mind. I know it does. It’s completely ridiculous. I have a life back at home. A real life where no one expects me to look good in a bikini, walk in high heels, or possess any sort of talent.
Maybe that’s the problem, though. Maybe we all need a little push now and then. Maybe there’s some truth to what everyone says about venturing out of your comfort zone. Blah blah blah.
That has to be it. Because my sudden interest in making the top twenty—on my own terms—can’t have anything to do with Gray Beckham. All of that’s over. Period.
Except when I see him enter the room and take a seat at the judges’ table, my heart leaps to my throat. He’s wearing the same suit he had on earlier in the ice closet. And he looks spectacular, all piercing blue eyes and exquisite bone structure. Even Buttercup notices. I swear she sighs in my arms.
Just as I’m about to look away, my gaze snags. There’s something off about Gray’s appearance. Something not quite as perfect as the rest of him. My face goes hot when I finally put my finger on it. His tie is a little mussed. It looks like it’s been smoothed down flat after someone tried to wring it out like a dishrag.
And that someone is me.
I cough. Somewhere in the back of my head, I have a vague recollection of grabbing that pale blue necktie and holding on tight, anchoring myself to Gray as he kissed me.
Why is he still wearing it? He’s got to have other ties.
I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a man. He’s in tech. He’s a successful millionaire.Billionaire. Whatever. He's probably so type A that he’s got a tie for each day of the week, and he doesn’t want to throw a wrench in things by switching midday. The silk Hermès that so perfectly accentuates the color of his eyes is just his Thursday tie.
But then, for the briefest of moments, our eyes meet across the crowded room. Ever so subtly, he straightens his Windsor knot, then moves his fingertips down the length of his tie in a smoothing motion. Then he looks away.
It’s a secret message. I know it is. I’m just not altogether sure what it means, because I’m so totally in over my head. Last week I was shelving picture books and now I’ve got more secret lives than I can keep up with. I’ve somehow become the beauty pageant version of Jason Bourne.
“Still think he’s creepy?” Torrie says, following my gaze.
Super. I just got caught staring at Gray Beckham.
I clear my throat and turn my back toward him since I obviously can’t be trusted to ignore his presence in my line of sight. “No, I don’t. The Miss Starlight thing is amazing.He’samazing.”
Torrie’s head tilts. “Is he, now?”
My chest goes tight. I was wrong about not having any talent. When it comes to sticking my foot in my mouth, I’ve got oodles. “I mean, you know, he’s an amazing philanthropist.”
“Oh, sure.” She aims her gaze over my shoulder. “Plus he’s hot. Look at him.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I don’t want to look at him.”
Buttercup plants her head on my shoulder. Without even checking, I know she’s also staring at Gray.
Torrie gives me a look that translates roughly intoEven the dog wants to look at him. What’s wrong with you?
I swallow. Whatiswrong with me? “I’ve already looked at him, and I think I’ve seen enough. You know what I mean.”
Buttercup snorts. If I wasn’t relying so heavily on her to get me through the talent competition, I’d tell her she was a bad dog. Averybad dog.
“Actually, I don’t know what you mean,” Torrie says.
Neither do I. I’m just saying things—things that make no sense whatsoever—and I can’t seem to stop. Gray’s presence is unnerving me. As is his rumpled tie and his lush mouth and as Torrie puts it, his hotness.
